Chronicles of the Selphia Plains [Rune Factory 4]

The Cry of the Peacock Part VI

Bhima rose a little earlier than usual, leaving Avani asleep in bed. She’d been tolerably submissive since his last admonishment, so he’d rewarded her by foregoing the little extras. He didn’t really care either way—he knew some enjoyed that sort of thing for its own sake, whether giving or receiving. To him, though, it really was nothing more than a lesson taught—and ideally, learned. He would brook no insubordination, whether from those he’d drawn into his service or from his wife. Absolute obedience was what he required.

That said, there was a particular thrill about the way he dominated his wife so completely—the way she would cringe and whimper and writhe in pain and fear, yet he still could make her respond to him physically, even against her will. He still remembered the first time he brought her to a shuddering climax, sobbing with shame and disgust the whole time at her body’s betrayal. In fact, he thought of it quite often, and it had motivated him on more than one occasion when his nightly ministrations had begun to pall, frequently spurring him to new heights.

He was fairly confident that he had her all but broken to his will by this time. In fact, he was certain he would have succeeded long ago if it hadn’t been for Sundara. His face darkened as he thought of her paramour. It wasn’t that he cared so much whether she had a lover—or a thousand lovers, for that matter. However, it disrupted his plans to have her able to seek out comfort, to have something in her life that gave her hope and renewed her battered spirit. He needed her to be crushed beneath his heel before he could rebuild her into a useful tool for his ambitions. And Sundara was preventing that from happening.

Then a cruel smile stretched his deceptively beautiful mouth, baring his teeth in a feral grin.

**************

When Avani awoke, she was alone in the house. She was tired—so very tired. Even though Bhima hadn’t kept her up as late as he sometimes did, she had slept poorly, dreaming much but resting little. At least she wasn’t in pain this morning, and when she checked while bathing, she found the bleeding had virtually ceased.

She dressed in a simple skirt and blouse and cooked some porridge for her breakfast, though when she sat down, she found she had little appetite for food. She ended up throwing the untouched cereal to the hens, watching them eagerly peck it up while she drank a cup of tea, squabbling over the dried fruits she’d stirred in while cooking it. Finally, the hens had consumed every morsel, and they began to disperse, clucking softly as they scratched the earth in search of insects.

She stood watching them for some time, thinking to herself that if somehow she was ever free of her husband, she’d like to have a small farm. A few fields, some livestock, and hens—that would be just perfect. And perhaps even Sundara there by her side…. Then she recalled the meeting she’d set up with him later that day, and the light that had begun to illuminate her eyes again faded as she turned and slowly returned to the house.

**************

Sundara waited impatiently at the appointed place, his eagerness to see his lover again thwarting his efforts to avoid arriving too early. He didn’t want to attract attention, if anyone should happen to pass through, by just standing there in the woods, obviously waiting for someone. Yet there he was, pacing back and forth as he listened for any sign of her approach.

When at last he heard the sound of vines being pushed aside, he whirled around. She was coming, at last she was coming! he sang in his heart of hearts. But as she approached him, her expression was so heartbroken, so demoralized, that it made him ache for her.

He waited for her, rather than running to meet her, his eyes locked on her as he drank in every detail. She looked down at the ground as she walked, carefully avoiding the many uneven spots on the path. Her long, pale green hair was drawn back into a braid that reached her knees, and she wore simple white and brown clothing, as she often did, rather than the bright colors and rich embroidery that most Ventunisi favored, that she herself had once favored—until her marriage, that is.